ALLEN GINSBERG MEMORIAL CELEBRATION
by
JONATHAN VOS POST

(c) 1997 by Emerald City Publishing
All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission.
May be posted electronically provided that it is transmitted unaltered, in its
entirety, and without charge.
Brought to you by: Magic Dragon Multimedia
Altadena California Exclusive: 22 June 1997

"Check out the grouping of people," John Densmore of The Doors told
Your Humble Webmaster, "here because of a baldheaded hipster of the 50s."
He shook his ponytail and waved at the scintillating backstage crowd at Veteran's
Wadsworth Theatre in Brentwood California. "It's the theory of concentric circles.
Allen Ginsberg threw a rock into the pond, and the ripples will
keep spreading out for 200 years!"
Allen Ginsberg died in April, 70 years old, yet his ripples spread through
hundreds of festively mourning fans and dozens of celebrities. It was the
evening of Saturday, 21 June 1997. Pardon me while I drop a few names...
Dr. Oscar Janiger, co-organizer and long-time friend of America's great poet,
and of the late Timothy Leary (whom several people told me was sorely missed
at this Memorial) had read a touching eulogy, and the silver screen displayed a video of
Allen Ginsberg amusing conservative broadcaster/author William Buckley and
then chanting "OOOOOoooooohhhhhmmmmmmmmm..." outside the 1968 Chicago
Democratic Convention just before Mayor Daley's SWAT team began beating
innocent bystanders.
"They once called me a conservative," commented satirist Paul Krassner to me,
"because I condemned The Government on TV." I told him how much I enjoyed
his scathing magainze "The Realist" and recent books.
I was there, my name scrawled on the Press List, my pockets stuffed with
poetry and business cards, as I had been at so many Allen Ginsberg events in
his lifetime, and as I had been reporting in print since 1978,
while the full moon rose over the palm trees and the parking lot strewn with
VW vans and stretch limosines, on the salt-air and smog-scented breeze of the
first full day of Summer.
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William S. Burroughs and Jack Nicholson were promised to attend, but were
notable no-shows. Political essayist Alexander Cockburn and Garth Hudson
of The Band also were nowhere to be seen.
Nicholson had some reshoots to do at a Hollywood soundstage, and William Burroughs
was feeling under the weather, and reputedly had second thoughts about the
incompetant freeloaders admixed with the sincere and more professional organizers
of this star-studded Memorial Celebration.
"They're building a pyramid on the remains of my friend," said one anonymous
participant, these bozos to whom Allen wouldn't have given the time of day,
except to be polite."
The snotty so-called Press Liaison, Joan Sekler, in particular,
was giving contradictory information to the Press all evening, while she boasted
of her documentary about the CIA as a work-in-progress.
"You can't come back in without a ticket," she said, and you can't have a ticket."
She refused to give me a press kit, so the editor of that photocopied press kit,
Lewis MacAdams, gave me his copy. Then Queen Joan cynically called for Federal Police
to back up her putative authority -- more on that later.
Ed Sanders of The Fugs read his eulogy, introduced a video
of William Burroughs (loving and laconic), and then introduced the live,
raspy, and riveting Tom Waits, who scraped a Jack Kerouac song through
his gravel-lined throat. Bob Weide cued a video eulogy from best-selling
novelist Kurt Vonnegut.
John Densmore chatted with Peter Bergman of Firesign
Theater, who shared his memories of the last time we'd been at the same
event (Amherst, Massachusetts, around 1975), and swapped stories about
Arthur Conan Doyle, Lenny Bruce, and the man who helped to
convict Lenny -- the ex-Canter's Deli waiter Sherman Block, now Sheriff of
Los Angeles County, the highest-paid elected official in America, who
presides over decent professional cops, the brutal creeps who battered my
neighbor Rodney King, and the sleaze-bags on the force who
launder narcotics money for local gangs. "Everything's changed," said
Peter, who was here as part of a 3/4 reunion of his surreal comedy team,
"except that nothing's changed at all."
Ed Sanders again took the stage, leaned out towards the seats (packed with
$4 ticket-buyers, $200 donors, and hangers-on who kissed organizers'
collective ass) and introduced poet Anne Waldman. Anne
had once complemented me at a Lincroft, New Jersey reading for my swaying
finger-snapping, and foot-tapping, when others sat still in bogus postures of
respectability. Anne, who has taught at The Naropa Institute along with
Ginsberg and William Burroughs, crooned and chanted a mantra/poem
"Gospel Noble Truth."
Steve Taylor of The Fugs launched into "The Cradle Song,"
then segued to Allen Ginsberg's niece Anne Brooks, who read a poem by her
father, Allen's brother Eugene Brooks.
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There were stars of the literary world as well as the world of Hollywood,
while the stars of fusing hydrogen atoms began to shine through the
twilight sky. I'd arrived an hour early, spent my last folding money on
parking, and used my Press Pass to politely re-enter the small theatre and
scout locations. The aforementioned Joan Sekler was giving a CBS-TV
documentarian trouble about getting in to pull an audio feed from the
mixing board. "But I'm doing a Special for CBS and HBO, hosted by
Dennis Miller," he said, "and Jonathan here will be helping me
with Internet promotion."
We strolled in, with the approval of black-bow-tied bouncers. I watched his
casette recorder while the sound engineer stripped and spliced the cable, and
then I saw a nasty scene developing when Sickler didn't want to admit the CBS
special's Producer. I left, to avoid bringing down the heat on these unquestionably
legitimate broadcasters. In the lobby, I commiserated with a 1968 KPFK-FM
radio show host. He and I had both been regulars on that Pacifica station
before it began throwing commentators to the dogs for daring to exercise
their First Amendment Rights.
Tom Robbins strode by, with the magnificent air of a literary emperor,
flanked by crew-cut assistants. "What would you like to say to 2,000,000 of my
readers on the Internet from 102 countries, Mr. Robbins," I asked. The
author of "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" and other astonishing novels raised
his hitchhiker's thumb, smiled, and said "Stay Free!"
His stretch limo moved aside to lot another limo through, from which
emerged the handsome Johnny Depp, who has moved from triumph to triumph in films,
among which I particularly enjoy "Edward Scissorhands."
As the "Battle of the Skeletons" video of Allan Ginsberg, backed by
Paul McCartney, rolled to a close, Tom Robbins introduced
himself, gave a eulogy combined with a promotion for the films of Gus Van
Sant, and then introduced Laura Huxley, who explained the connection between
Allen Ginsberg, Aldous Huxley, the imaginary drug "Soma" in Huxley's novel
"Brave New World", and the Huxley phrase "the Doors of Perception"
which was the basis of Jim Morrison and John Dunsmore's The Doors.
By the way, Paul McCartney met John Lennon 40 years ago on 5 July 1957.
John Lennon would have been the star of this memorial if he had not been
murdered. The FBI, according to Freedom of Information documents,
considered him the secret leader of America's anti-war movement. Get a
clue, G-Men.
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Ed Asner emerged from another limo. Star of stage and
screen, including his role as the prickly producer with the heart of gold
on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show", it was hard to believe that he had held the
same office as Ronald Reagan, said a cigarette-puffing
musician leaning against the "Smoke Free Area" sign. Ed Asner had indeed
been head of the Screen Actor's Guild. "I was proud to do your daughter's
resume," I told Asner, "Kate is a very talented young lady." Ed smiled as
only a proud father can. "Indeed she is!"
At this point, as Ed Asner went on stage to introduce a video greeting from
my former Brooklyn Heights neighbor Norman Mailer, three
Federal U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs Police approached, their
walkie-talkies crackling like burning sagebrush. "Are you Jonathan Vos
Post?" asked the supervisor. "We've got a complaint that you're
misreprenting yourself as a member of the Press."
"Let's talk this over, officer," I said in a friendly way, and we walked
away from the stage door. I showed Officer Michael C. Hutchins, badge
number 2391, my credentials, copies of articles about Ginsberg events I'd had
published in newspapers over two decades, and he made a few pointed observations.
"The people running this show may be well-intentioned volunteers," he
concluded, "but they don't seem to know what they're doing, and they are flat-out
wrong about the juridiction of the fire department regarding theatre seating."
He and I talked about the need for security, and pointed towards the
Federal Building, looming tall at the Westwood border. "My cousin was at
the Oklahoma City center," he said. "So far as a death sentance for
Timothy McVeigh goes, he said with evident pain, "I don't
see how they can execute him 169 times over, as he deserves."
On our way back to the theatre, officer Hutchins powered-on his radio.
"No problem with the Jonathan Vos Post thing," he said. "He can stay here.
From now on, disregard whatever the Press Liaison tells the officers,
until they get their act together." Then he smiled at me and added,
"they're being real assholes to a lot of the Press. Don't take it
personally." He shook my hand, and wandered over to talk to Johnny Depp.
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Johnny Depp, even more handsome in person than he is on screen, came back
over to me and shook my hand. "I'm honored to know Mr. Ginsberg," he told
me gravely. He was wearing black slacks, a black dinner jacket, and an
unbuttoned white shirt. His hair was waved, meticulous and casual at
once. "I was fortunate to know him. He was a hero; he's certainly a hero.
He had a good time, and I believe that he's still having a good time."
Jerome Rothenberg read two poems, and introduced performance artist
Linda Albertano. Ed Sanders sang a William Blake song of Ginsberg's, introduced
poet Caroline Kleefeld, Anne Waldman ushered in poet Wanda Coleman, who
read two poems and intro'd a Pam/Bill Bothwell Buddhist Teaching video.
Next came a 1958 video of Ginsberg reading his immortal "Howl", and a clip
of a more recent reading of the "Moloch" sequence from "Howl."
Beat poet Michael McClure read his eulogy, then introduced Bob Rosenthal,
who in turn introduced Jack Thompson and Kevin Spacy's reading of "White
Shroud." Jack Thompson emerged, beaming, and launched into a discussion with me
about the friendship and performing relationship between Allan Ginsberg
and Bob Dylan.
At this point, a smartly dressed Ms. Smith was stopped at the stage door by
an implacable security guard who didn't see her name on the guest list.
"But I'm one of the women who organized this event!" she protested. One
of the flunkies of Event Producer Sharon Levy and UCLA Event Coordinator
John D. Henson countered "I'm one of the women who organized this event.
Who are you?"
"You'd better check with Dr. Janiger," said Ms. Smith. A minute later,
Ms. Smith was handed a ticket, but denied one for her assistant. Half an
hour later, Ms. Smith came around and gave me her ticket stub. "This will
get you back in if they give you a hard time," she said. "I put thousands
of hours into this, and they have no respect." I continued to hang around
at the loading dock, talking with the performers before and after their
presentations, and hearing their songs and poems from backstage. The show
went on.
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One wonderful surprise at "Allen Ginsberg's America" was the appearance by
Artie Shaw. Musicologists still debate which clarinet-playing Big Band
leader of the 1930s and 1940s was the best, Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman.
Benny Goodman had the edge on Classical music and the classical infleunce on pop
music, but Artie Shaw had a livelier mix of the vernacular of Jazz, Blues, and Swing.
Artie was also famous for marrying five of the most beautiful women in the world,
including Eva Gardner. When folks ribbed him about this, he's say "at least I married
them!"
Here at the Wadsworth, Artie Shaw did not play music -- he has not done so
in public for half a century. But he did delight the crowd with a
hypertext-like interwoven involuted narrative about a particularly weird
show he did once in Texas. It didn't directly connect to Ginsberg, and
yet it was exactly in the Ginsbergian existential Kerouac-oid On-The-Road
improvisational spirit.
My father had negotiated with Artie, a "tall good-looking man with animated
features," as my dad put it. My dad had been in book deals with Veronica Lake,
Hedy Lamarr, and other show-biz legends, including no less than Judy Garland.
I helped Artie down the stairs -- he walked with a cane -- and we talked
about the Moon. I told Artie about a long lunar conversation I'd had with
Allen Ginsberg and Nobel Laureate George Wald, who died a few weeks after Ginsberg.
"I'd love to go to the Moon" beamed Artie. "I would love to walk on that pumice."
"I wish Allen were here --" I said to Artie, but he interrupted. "Allan
IS here! he said, grinning broadly. "He's kvelling."
"What's that?" asked a bystander. "It's Yiddish," said Artie. "Allen is
preening, gloating, swelling with pride. He's here tonight, and he's
having a ball!"
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The Tish Band played some lovely Klesmer-inspired ethnic jam,
and then Paul Krassner introduced former Grateful Dead lyricist and
co-founder of the Electronic Freedom Foundation, Reverend John Perry Barlow.
At this point, Johnny Depp was supposed to introduce singing sensation
Beck, who unique blend of rock, folk, new age, hip-hop,
and who knows what else is galvanizing the teenage world. Beck, to the
great disappointment of the musicians, was another no-show.
Instead, Johnny Depp gave a powerful reading of a message from gonzo journalist
S. Hunter Thompson. The time was right for the 75% reunion of
Firesign Theater to give us their psychedelic equivalent of the
Abbott and Costello "Who's On First?" routine. "Don't crush that dwarf, hand me
the pliers," recited one backstage fan, and another replied "What Is Reality?"
Edward Albert and his daughter did a beautiful lyric piece,
Bob Rosenthal led to Bill Morgan and a video of "Pull My Daisy."
Michael McClure brought in Bob Neuwirth who intro'd the golden-voiced
Ronee Blakely. Ronee suddenly started choking, and rushed
off stage. The crew ignored this emergency, but I jumped to get her a bottle of
water, and stayed with her until her coughing/choking fit subsided. She'd
never had this happen before, and was shaken by the experience. I stayed
with her until she felt better, and she returned to her friends backstage.
What a sweet voice she has, and what an equally sweet smile!
Gordon Ball read a eulogy, George Condo spoke, ran a clip, introduced Hal Wilner
for his eulogy, and then rocker/poet Exene Cerveka gave us an unclassifiable
musical interlude.
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By now, it was roughly 1 a.m., and the crowd had dwindled to about 20% of
house capacity. Representatives of the Poetry Scholarship Fund of the
Naropa Institute made a fund-raising speech, and picked this inopportune
time to pass the hat, idiotic after 4/5 of the wallets had already
left the scene.
Producers and Stage Managers were running around frantically trying to
decide when to end the show, and whom to cut from the remainder of the
program. Musicians caught a whiff of the chaos, and began pressing for
priority. They'd all been rehearsing for a week. One the other hand, the
crew was beginning to pass out from exhaustion.
British punk-poet, rock musician, and science fiction novelist Mick Farren
vigorously performed a scatological poem of Ginsberg, George Herms
had fun as a one-man-band with instruments improvised from junk, and Michael Lally
closed the show with the poem "Homeboy for Ginsberg."
The audience never knew that they'd been denied a reading of a Ferlingetti
poem, a psychiatrically probing song from the remarkable Dark Bob (I'll
review his latest CD on this web site later), Michael Simmons,
Ellen Maybe, The Mighty Echoes, Rani Singh (who was at Ginsberg's deathbed),
Jerry Aronson, or Michael Schumacher.
The last music we had, with crowd sing-along, was "The Nurse's Song",
performed by Steven Taylor, Ed Sanders, and a luminous string quartet.
"And all the hills echo-ed, and all the hills echo-ed..."
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People drifted away at 1:30 a.m., as the crew struck the set and loaded
equipment into trucks. Performers clutched their envelopes of driving
directions to the secret noon-5 p.m. brunch. The ever-useless Joan Sekler
could have apologized to me by inviting me to that closed event, but was
too caught up in her New Left Pseudofeminist Activist schtick to even
consider it. I've been in touch with the genuinely artistic crowd here
for a long time, and will continue to be, while petty bureacrats and slaves
to Moloch fall by the wayside.
Hell, I had a wonderful time at this celebration of the poet who was to the
20th Century what Walt Whitman was to the 19th Century. Both retook
poetry from the dusty halls of the Academy and brought it back to the
streets and the people, from which spring Verlaine, Rimbaud, Bob Dylan, the
Beatles, and the infinite interweaving cyborg brain-music of the Internet.
One of the most electric and eclectic groups of people ever assembled on
stage had Done Their Thing tonight, in loving memory of a great and
controversial man, whose ripples are spreading into the interstellar future.
Clouds hid the Moon, the crickets hushed their stridulations, and Allen Ginsberg
smiled down on all of us from Heaven. He's still having a good time!

All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission.
May be posted electronically provided that it is transmitted unaltered, in its
entirety, and without charge.
Brought to you by: Magic Dragon Multimedia